marytkelly's Open Salon Blog

AA, San Francisco Style

Wed, 7 Mar 2012 12:03:15 -0500

I went to support the one I loved. I went to support myself. It was dusk in the City by the Bay and the soft orangish golden hues of a day that was reluctant to say good night illuminated the city like halos.

I went to support the others who would be there. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge with a heart that was dripping with love and pain ironically felt intoxicating.

Driving up the steep streets the city is famous for seemed like a metaphor for life as we eventually dipped down into the heartbeat of San Francisco, the Castro District, where Harvey Milk changed the course of human history by insisting that those who had encased themselves in closets of shame come out come out where ever they were and start to tell the truth.

I went to support the truth. I squeezed the car into a parking space so tight you’d swear I was related to Houdini. I had driven in with the one I love and we followed a line of people, almost exclusively men, all walking with determination and drive to enter the place where denial and excuses took a backseat and the air was filled with the real life truths of men and women whose secrets had been exposed one way or another and the only thing that really mattered was that day, that night, that moment.

The church had a large meeting hall and we were surprised when we entered. There wasn’t a seat in the house. We settled on a hard bench after we grabbed a handful of cookies and tea.

I went to support the anonymous, the misfits, the homeless, the wealthy, the flamboyant, the athletic, the weak, the successful. I went to support all of them, addicts, just like me, and just like the one I was with.

We stood out like sore thumbs, the two of us, white wonder bread heterosexual women tucked in between men who smelled of sweat and fragrance, bitter and sweet, dashed dreams and realistic hopes.

Bare to the bones honesty was the theme of the talk. In unplanned unison, the hundred or so of us packed into that room nodded our heads in agreement, laughed at the stories that we would have sworn someone was reciting from our most tightly held journals, and tears at the remembering, the longing, the disgust, the secrets and the good pathway out.

I went to support no more secrets.

As I sat there gazing into the faces of strangers who were just like me, I was struck with the good fortune we all shared. We had all, at one time or another, been enslaved to a Presence that didn’t want our best or even our mediocre; it wanted our souls. And we had, some willingly and some kicking and screaming, handed over our lives to the care of the better part of ourselves, to the wisdom and self-knowing that had been laying dormant for months and for most, years.

I laughed when I thought of the absurdity of it all. The Us vs. Them as if those who hadn’t fallen into the trap of addiction to some kind of substance or drug didn’t have their own demons and habits that had seduced them into living lives false and uninspected. Just like us.

The workaholics, exercise fanatics, religious zealots, the do-gooders, the academics, the internet junkies, action oriented goal seeking strivers, the actors, the pretenders, the tightly woven, and the perfectly put together. They who had also stopped being honest and instead chose to stay on a treadmill that offered no release or freedom towards the lightness of being.

Someone in the meeting said that the truth might just set you free and I wouldn’t disagree. The last six years had brought me sobriety, the last six months had brought me hell. No matter, I was thankful I’d given up the alcohol years ago. Sedation is no way to find one’s way out of Hades and that night, being cocooned with those who were walking the same path was more than liberating.

We ended the meeting holding hands aspiring to change the things we had any real chance of changing, accepting the things that were out of our hands, and committing ourselves to be humble enough to at least attempt to try to learn the difference.

Friendly faces and handshakes were thrust on us in every direction and conversations were quickly made. We felt as if we’d known one another for a lifetime.

Stepping outside where fog had changed places with the sun, I walked past the faces of other strangers, strangers who may not have needed that kind of meeting, but strangers nonetheless who struggled with the same kind of life difficulties as those of us who had just left that hallowed room. It is no easy task to be rigorously honest with oneself.

I supported them. I supported us. I am them and they are me and we are all when it gets right down to it, One.

Dignity.

Thu, 2 Feb 2012 10:02:28 -0500

Like everyone, there have been times when the insults, gossips, falsehoods, judgments and the finger pointing, some expected and some not, have come hurling at me like fireballs. My skin and inner core weren’t thick enough to absorb the blazing burning of the looks and opinions of others and my desire to defend and explain was manic and immature.

I desperately wanted, felt I needed to, had to be, heard and understood.

There were innumerable times when the way to defend was delivered in loud torrents of angry words and raised tones, as if I were convinced that the volume of my discourse would simultaneously connect and barricade me against those who couldn’t or wouldn’t comprehend.

I would later think back with shame and remorse at how, despite my best intentions, I had lost it…the composure, the restraint, the control to not react but rather respond.

During one particularly long-winded tirade at the one I loved, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. There is nothing more ugly than a face distorted with anger.

Some months ago, I received an email full of accusations that from my vantage point seemed grossly unfair. My heart was pounding like a gavel in the judge’s courtroom. My face burned a crimson red upon reading and absorbing. I could hear my loud and justified spitfire responses that would soon be spat upon the sender of the email. I could taste victory in the air as I imagined how I would prove my points beyond argument and cause the other to feel stupid and remorseful. Vindication seemed more than reasonable.

But mainly, truthfully, my motivation was born from a craving to being heard and understood. I longed for it like a persistent sideache. It was damn right verging on an addiction.

Miraculously, contrary to my usual vocal style, I chose a different course. I honored their wishes that I not respond to the email in any way. My ego was in strong disagreement but in a rare moment of discipline, I resisted and simply let it be.

I learned the powerful lesson of space. The long-standing tension and strain in the relationship dissipated in those weeks of silence and nothingness.

I turned my need to be heard and understood inward and the lessons learned became only between me and me. Dignity became a visitor to me and I practiced in earnest to allow it residence in the deepest parts of me.

I practiced this like a new instrument and sometimes I succeeded and sometimes I failed.

The other day was a good day. A day that was full of things productive and forward moving. The dark clouds that had been following me like shadows had subsided and I was filled with the kind of joy that requires leaving the childish ways behind.

Yet life holds its fire drills and there was an unexpected intrusion filled with threatening and hateful words. The face was close to mine with eyes distorted and dazed with contempt and once again my heart was pounding and my defenses on full alarm. In my mind, I could hear the rush of words that were ready to be avalanched at the one who stood inches from me. But my practice had paid off and although I felt sad, confused, misunderstood and angry, I kept my composure and walked away.

One can find great comfort when disentangling themselves from the arduous and painful tentacles of old beliefs and ways of reacting. There’s relief in surrendering to the exhaustion created by the fruitless bitter words and tones, the adamant self-defenses, as if those explanations could somehow make believers out of those determined to not listen to them anyway. The ones, who just like me, felt unheard and misunderstood.

The past is the past and I could be fairly accused of many crazy things from days gone by. But why stay in the playground that has been rusted and worn while the swings hang empty and alone?

The child resides in me and she is well taken care of. She is listened to, she is understood and despite my age, I skip on the wooded path that leads me to places wild and unknown.

They say that practice makes perfect and I am lightyears away from that, but Dignity has become a familiar companion and quiet truths ring boldly in the heart of this grown woman who has consoled herself that she has well earned the chance to be at peace. Despite myself. Because of myself.

Cold Stone Sober

Mon, 2 Jan 2012 23:01:15 -0500

I don’t need an aphrodisiac, no wine to marinate my sorrows, no pill to swallow away the pain, no plant to inhale and numb. My grief is sensual. It pulsates through my body, coursing its way from the lump in my throat sliding down like burning butter to the place that remembers. I remember. My tears drip like small porous pearls that flow down and form droplets of passion and desire. Images of times spent intertwined flash through my mind like the fingers of fog that run over the mounds of Mount Tamalpais as I drive my car with fury around the bends and curves of the road, like the touches that slowly outlined my hips and legs to the places that knew sweet release.

My mouth remembers the fullness. My head pounds with the music, beats and gyrations of times past. I tap my nails on the steering wheel as I weave my way closer to the water’s edge as the sunset seduces and my pain and thoughts of ecstasy explode into a million shards of glass that cut deep to the core of a broken heart.

Some may call me dramatic and they might be right. But I’m glad my grief teases and taunts. There was a time when I would reach for the cold crisp glass of cool relief and the searing pain would be frozen in time. I would wade into waters of sadness without sensation and days would go by where I would go through the motions and never have to feel a thing.

Cold stone sober is the best way to grieve. There’s no messing around when I allow the waves of agony to throb in the secret recesses of my body and soul. Cellular memories come to life when there are no fixes, no Band-Aids to dull the senses, no pain pills to lull me into silent and dreamless slumber.

Loss is best experienced in its naked glory. It comes fast and furious and leaves a blaze of golden fiery dust like the shooting star that cares not where its destiny lies.

I awake in the cold morning with hot breath. I startle at the sound of my own soft moaning. My pillow is wet and stained with tears that fell during the night, like the midnight snow that came unannounced and surprised. No hangover flattens and I find relief in that. Feeling sad is better than feeling nothing at all.

I play with my grief and appreciate its lessons learned. Sometimes I’m tempted to use the aid of an amnesiac. I remember how easy it would be to fall back to patterns old and misused. Relief is only a short drive away.

But stone cold sober is the way I like my grief. Straight up. On the jagged rocks of my ragged heart. Real. Stark.

It’s the place where I know I’m fully alive. Life and the sun invite me like the gentle nudge of a lover when there is no fog to shroud.

The grief walks hand in hand with me and I know I am not alone.

Inspired by Loss and This

My Life Is A Nightmare!

Wed, 23 Nov 2011 10:11:50 -0500

“My life is a nightmare.” “The drama never ends.” “I can’t take this another minute.” “It’s just one crisis after another.” These are the things I say to myself when life doesn’t go my way. This is the way my friends and clients talk when their lives disappoint or they reach a boiling point in the Stress Department.

We human beings have a tendency to catastrophize things way beyond their proportion. We tend to like to make mountains out of molehills. We like to slow down to look at the accident that we really don’t want to see. As we approach the sirens and the crunched cars, injuring our necks to look, we are whispering to ourselves, “Please don’t let me see any blood, any bodies. Please, please please.”

We are a strange bunch of creatures now aren’t we?

So maybe it’s time to take a big long deep breath. Sometimes we’re so in whatever it is we're in that we truly can’t see the forest through the trees. We’ve lost all perspective. What may be obvious to everyone else feels like a maze, a disaster, a mess.

Think about it. Let’s say you are in a true bona fide crisis like your house is on fire. Do you run around pulling your hair out screaming, “Oh this is a disaster, this is a crisis! This is hopeless!” No, you call 911 and get the fire department involved. Now the fire department arrives. Do the firemen/women run around pulling their hair out, screaming, “This is a nightmare!” No, of course they don’t. They go into solution mode. They do whatever it takes to extinguish the fire. They solve the problem as best as they can.

When we tell ourselves, “This is a nightmare!” our mind will believe us. It will go into flight or fight mode. The adrenalin will start pumping. It will “act as if” there really is an emergency. This is more than depleting to the heart, mind, and soul.

Everyone just needs to calm the bleep down. Slow down. Relax. Take some deep belly breaths. It’s funny how often we forget to breathe.

As of late I found myself saying, “This is horrific, this stuff that is going on in my life.” And then I stood back and thought about it. No, it wasn’t horrific. Horrific would mean and despite the fact that I’m not a superstitious person, I’m knocking on wood right now, horrific would mean something bad happening to one of my children or someone I love. It would mean another terrorist attack or natural disaster killing innocent people somewhere on the globe. It would really take a lot for things to be “horrific”.

Holidays seem to be a magnet for these kinds of "disasters". We can even make an emergency out of the damn turkey. It can’t be too dry. God forbid The Turkey is too dry! The meal must be perfect. Family members who have never gotten along are suddenly expected to become The Waltons. We cause ourselves a lot of suffering by the stories we tell ourselves.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. For various reasons, I have no plans. My children are either out of state or out of the country or otherwise indisposed. Well-meaning friends have made gracious dinner offers and I could certainly take them up on their kindness. But for once, for the first time in my life, I'm choosing to be Solo on Thanksgiving.

I could feel sorry for myself and tell a sad story about how awful it is to not be around my kids and to not cook a holiday meal, but the real truth is that those kinds of plot lines don’t serve me and they certainly don’t make me feel happy.

So why bother with them? Tomorrow is a day of spaciousness for me. I have zero responsibilities. I have two Golden Retriever puppies that have been begging for a long walk and I’m more than happy to comply. I'll hike up the steep hills and reflect and be grateful for all the things I have in my life, not the things I don’t. I may take a nap or indulge myself in a movie. I will impose myself on my friends and drop by to see them in the midst of their busy day and wish them well. I will call my children to say, “Happy T Day” and they will rest well in knowing that their Mother is more than fine. I will not be a victim because I’m not one. My youngest daughter will join me in the early evening and we will laugh and shrug our shoulders and say, “What the hell! What an unusual Thanksgiving we’re having!”

I will delight in a different kind of Thanksgiving. I read something once that asked the good question, “Do you enjoy your own company in those dark and lonely moments when everything familiar has slipped away?”

It took me a long time to trust and love myself. I trust that I will take good care of myself tomorrow and pledge to be there for me in the days ahead, no matter what they bring, uncomfortable or not.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. I know we live in uncertain times. I know many of you have lost your security, your jobs, and your health. But we have the invitation to learn powerful and life-sustaining lessons when we go through these times. Ultimately, if we’re willing, we learn about the preciousness of the breath, of Life itself.

And for that, we can all be Thankful.

I Love Myself

Mon, 14 Nov 2011 10:11:19 -0500

I love myself. There I said it. Without guilt, reservation or hesitation. I say it with passion and commitment. And I say it with humility and simplicity. Sometimes I say it moment to moment and sometimes, the heart knows and no words need to be said for days. I say it because it’s true.

It took me well over half-a-century to say, “I love myself”. In fact, I’m quite sure there were decades that went by where the thought of loving myself never occurred to me. I knew God loved me, although there were certainly conditions to be met, stipulations that would take me to my grave. I knew my parents loved me but I also knew they didn’t know me.

I was given The List of who to love pre-verbally. My parents' Catholicism was implanted in cellular memory while I was yet in the womb and my arrival gave birth to one who knew that God came first, then family, and third, the unsaved. I don’t ever remember making The List of Those Who Should Be Loved, despite the glow of my Mother’s face when she talked about how much God loved her.

I was a Trooper of the first order. My innate personality and the family motto, “Peace at Any Cost” conspired to make sure that love of oneself didn’t complicate what was needed when a pleaser pursues peace. It didn’t matter that I was also feisty and funny and dramatic and playful. They were imposters posing for the attention of those she loved. As if loving oneself could be passed on by ones who didn’t know how to either.

But I don’t want to belabor the point here. I know why it was so hard for me to learn to love; I spent years in self-examination trying to give my lonely heart comfort with words that didn’t resonate. For me, Love would only come with the passage of time and no stomping of my feet or raising my fists persuaded its earlier arrival. It was as it had to be.

It took me well over half-a-century to earn the tools, the experiences, the adventures, the repressions, the passions, the losses, the joys and the mirror in my children’s eyes as they stretched into the long limbs of adulthood and stood there, right in front of me, and spoke gentle words of understanding and knowing while silently urging me to give myself the permission to love. Myself.

I can’t say the exact moment the Shift happened. It had happened many times, and as shifts tend to do, they like to shift some more. And I would leave the place of Self-Love, acting as if following the call of the cruel voices of Judgment was some kind of calling or mission or simply because I could find small comfort in the familiarity of self-disdain and self-doubt.

Now there is no more fretting. No need to ever be lonely as long as I stay true. “Pfffttt, pffffttt” to you who say I’m selfish or vain because the words of others don’t mean much to me right now, as long as I have me. Some may think I’ve paid a heavy price to love myself and perhaps there’s some truth to that, but nothing seems to come to most of us without the stresses and the strains, the groans and the tears. I’d like to think I was worth it.

It took me well over a century to say, “I love myself”. My desire for you is to love yourself too. With boldness and kindness. With confidence and grace. All the while acknowledging the exquisite beauty of the flaws, the dysfunctions, and the flesh and bones that speak to us of Love.

Say it with me if you will, “I love myself.”

Now...that wasn’t so hard, was it.